Snow erased the plans today. Instead of rushing out of the door, I curved on my fuzzy socks and took my time. Time is a psychological game. I make plans, allocating time slots to activities, but when those plans cancel without my design, I am forced to stay still and be natural. It takes expectation out of the equation.
We burned a fire for 12 hours today, the first log whistling out moisture and crackling at 9 am. If this house didn’t already feel like a cottage, it surely smells like one. Dry oak mixes well with my sage candle, and the scent inspired me to do stuff without doing so much. Parts of things happened, and the other parts, they’ll just have to wait.
Like every year around this time, my students have been learning about literary Transcendentalism. To think of Emerson’s “Snowstorm” wasn’t out of nowhere, but for me the snow was an unexpected visitor; I’ve felt all day that I was in a “tumultuous privacy of storm.” I woke up and wanted to say, “Come see the north wind’s masonry!” I tried to take pictures of the flurries but no picture caught the beauty accurately.
I reveled in the untouched snow for some time, and then I tore through it. I wore Kal’s big coat, wrapped a huge scarf around me, and played outside with the kids. They had one main objective: they wanted to hoard the snow, a magical gift that must be relished before it melts away. Layla felt protective over her territory—the top of the car, which had collected a soft and sticky layer. Zade didn’t let anyone near his domain—the tops of tree stumps and planks gathered and revered like it was his own fort. I taught them how to make snowballs; they returned the favor by throwing them all over me. I was the target for an hour, and I felt pretty good about it. Kal got hit by some surprise attacks as well.
Alas, the hazy white peace of the day settles and sifts with reality. Zade fell asleep next to his dad an hour ago, and Layla, who is not feeling well, is lost under mille-feuille blankets with a running humidifier. The house is quiet, pregnant with opportunity, offering a solitude that says, “now it’s time to write…or grade…or clean..or watch a movie.”
I only listened to one of those sirens, which is why I write this short post now. I’m giving in to the theme of the day, just doing what moves me in time unaccounted for.
And now the bed is calling. Stay warm, my friends, and watch, read, and listen if you happen to have some quiet lulls tomorrow.
Memory Box Mom 